


High

by delires



Category: Digimon - All Media Types, Digimon Adventure, Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02, Digimon Adventure tri.
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 10:36:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15386934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delires/pseuds/delires
Summary: Yamato puts his hands in his pockets and tries to look inconspicuous. This would be easier if he wasn’t hanging in some deserted parking lot with three other guys, all quite obviously waiting there to meet a dealer.





	High

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt fill on tumblr for misslouder, originally posted [here](http://delirific.tumblr.com/post/176062411996/ficlet-high-taiyama-pg-13-after-i-made-this).

The parking lot outside the hall they’ve been playing is dark and empty. Safe enough. But it’s the smell. The smell is what always makes Yamato nervous. That, and the waiting.

He puts his hands in his pockets and tries to look inconspicuous. This would be easier if he wasn’t hanging in some deserted parking lot with three other guys, all quite obviously waiting there to meet a dealer.

Beside him, Kentaro, the guitarist shakes his head. His hair is a sweaty mess from the heat of the spotlights. “I can’t believe I fucked that key change,” he says.

“Nobody noticed,” Yamato tells him, trying to be kind, although honestly, it had been pretty bad.

“What are you talking about? It was the worst,” says Koji, who plays keyboard. “It was like you never picked up a guitar before.”

“Dude,” says Tomohiro, the drummer, leaning around Yamato to glare at Koji. “Be cool, okay? Like you never fuck up.”

“I don’t fuck up. Not compared to the rest of you, anyway.”

Yamato opens his mouth to remind Koji of that time that he up-ended a whole glass of beer all over his keyboard five minutes before they were meant to be on stage, but Kentaro shushes them all loudly.

“Guys, is this him?” he asks, gesturing unsubtly at the hooded figure approaching across the parking lot. “Tomo. Is this your man?”

“Yeah,” says Tomohiro, who is, deep down, probably the most street of all of them, not that Yamato would ever admit that out loud. “Think so.”

Yamato pushes Kentaro’s pointing hand down and watches warily as the guy approaches them. He is always on his guard around strangers, most especially strangers with pockets full of drugs.

Only there’s something not so strange about this stranger, he realises. The way he moves, and the lines of his body are completely familiar. Yamato squints at the shadowed face beneath the hood. It could almost be…

“Hey,” Taichi says, flipping back his hood and smiling his best, brightest smile.

Tomohiro steps forwards to greet him. As well as playing drums, Tomohiro is a centre-back on the soccer team. He and Taichi go way back, almost as far as Taichi and Yamato do. They clasp hands and bump their shoulders together like dumb bros. Which they are.

“Sorry,” Yamato says in disbelief, or disapproval — he hasn’t decided which yet. “You’re our dealer?”

Taichi turns to him. “What? I’m just holding it for a friend.” He takes his hand out of the pocket of his hoodie and passes something to Tomohiro, subtle, like they’re shaking hands. “Here you go, man.”

“Thanks,” Tomohiro replies, winking at Taichi in a way that’s utterly unnecessary. “You staying to have some?”

“Sure,” Taichi says, with a shrug, as if he hadn’t been planning to do this all along. “I’ll hang out.”

Yamato can’t stop glaring at him. It’s not like he isn’t pleased to see his friend, but Taichi doesn’t have to be involved in every fucking thing he does.

And anyway, it’s annoying how good he looks in that hoodie. Everything Taichi wears is cheap and baggy, yet somehow it still manages to cling in all the right places. He puts no thought into his outfits at all. It’s pure, stupid luck that the navy colour he’s wearing today sets off his tanned skin and big brown eyes so well. Ridiculous.

“Hey, duchess,” Koji says, interrupting. Yamato realises that he’s staring at Taichi, and that everyone else is staring back at him. “Do you have a cigarette? I’m out.”

Yamato gets out his packet of Seven Stars and hands one over. As Tomohiro and Koji set about peeling back the cigarette paper and mixing the weed with the tobacco inside, Taichi steps closer to him — too close, like he always is.

“I caught the end of the show,” Taichi tells him. “I liked your moves.”

It’s dark, so nobody can see it, but Yamato can feel his cheeks heating up at the compliment.

“They’re stupid. I don’t even know what I’m doing up there half the time. I’m kind of out of it.”

“You look like you know exactly what you’re doing,” Taichi says. “It works, whatever it is. Thought I was going to go deaf from all that screaming.”

Yamato nods, watching Kentaro fussing over how the joint gets rolled.

“Things get loud,” he says.

Taichi nudges him with an elbow. “Check you out, man. You’re such a rock star.”

“Well,” Yamato says, but then Koji is asking him for a light, giving him an excuse to step away from Taichi and his too-big, too-loud, too-close presence.

Koji tilts his head and steadies Yamato’s hand with his fingertips until they can get the joint lit. He pulls it from his lips in a cloud of ripe-smelling smoke and then passes it straight to Yamato, without so much as a cough. His smoker’s lungs swallow the smoke with ease.

Yamato’s a smoker too, so he takes it down just as easy. Second nature. Like breathing. Which is exactly what it is. He exhales from the side of his mouth, directing the smoke away from Taichi, purely out of habit, even though he’s already handing the joint onto him.

Their fingers brush as Taichi takes it from him. He’s inexperienced, but you wouldn’t know it. He holds the thing right and looks almost natural with it, until he comes to exhale and then can’t help coughing as he’s passing it onto Tomohiro.

It’s strong. Much stronger than their last batch. Yamato can tell right away.

By the time it makes it round to him a second time, he’s already feeling calmer. Everything is smoother round the edges. He rubs the end of the joint lightly. The filter paper feels like silk between his fingertips.

Yamato is kind of high-strung. He knows he is. He spends most of his life feeling anxious or angry and trying his best to cover that up. That’s why he smokes and drinks, and sometimes does shit like this. He needs a little help to shut down all the bad voices. And this weed is certainly doing the trick.

“Here,” he says, turning to Taichi. This time, as he passes the joint over, their eyes meet. And they don’t look away. Not as Tai takes his drag, just about managing not to cough. Not as he hands it on round the circle. Not even when Kentaro exhales thoughtfully and says: “How did you guys meet again?”

Yamato thinks of snow and panic and the jolt of adrenaline. He thinks of monsters and laughter and the smell of damp earth.

“Summer camp,” Taichi says, deadpan, which is maybe the funniest thing that Yamato has ever heard.

Suddenly he can’t stop laughing. There are tears in his eyes. He has to hold onto Taichi’s arm for support.

He’s gotten high with the band before, but this time is better because Taichi is there too, and that’s awesome. Really fucking awesome.

“Camp,” Yamato says, in between gasps of laughter. “Fucking summer camp.”

“What?” Taichi says, grinning at him. “That’s technically the truth.”

They can’t seem to stop touching each other, which is weird. One of Taichi’s hands is on his shoulder and the other is at the nape of his neck, and then their foreheads are pressed together and Yamato can smell the weed on Taichi’s breath.

The others have gone into themselves, too. Tomohiro is laughing somewhere in the distance. But Taichi and Yamato are together. Connected, even in their haze.

And in a moment of clarity, the kind which only comes with substance abuse, Yamato thinks: this is stupid. They are both so stupid, the way they dance around the fact that they like each other all the time. When those bad voices are shut down, it seems so fucking obvious. It doesn’t have to be that way. All it needs is for one of them to finally say it: They like each other.

Taichi is thinking the same thing. Yamato can read it in his face. So he turns on the eyes and runs his hands slowly down Taichi’s arms — the kind of trick that would work on anyone else.

Sure enough, Taichi takes his cue and says: “Everyone in that audience wanted to fuck you tonight. To be honest, I did too.”

You can, Yamato thinks immediately, though his weed brain doesn’t say this out loud. It just makes him take Taichi by the hand and start walking.

“What’s happening?” Taichi asks, planting his feet more firmly. He resists until Yamato has to stop and look at him in annoyance.

“We have to go to the station,” Yamato says, although this should be obvious.

“Why?”

“We can’t fuck here. We’re outside.”

“Oh.”

“Do you not want to do that?”

“No, I really definitely do. I just didn’t know you’d be so down for it.”

“Okay,” Yamato says, because his inhibitions are long gone now, “You might not know this one thing about me, but I am the easiest lay in the world in the right circumstances. Drugs are the totally right circumstances.”

Taichi frowns at him. “I don’t like that,” he says. “It sounds kind of date-rape-y.”

Off in the background, Yamato hears a clatter, and then the sound of Kentaro, or Koji — no, Kentaro, definitely Kentaro — singing. He sighs and puts one hand on his hip to look at Taichi.

“Consensual drugs make me consensually easy,” he clarifies.

“Cool. Wait. Okay, I’ve logged that.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

“Wait. Should we not try to…”

But Taichi doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t get the chance to. He steps forwards, going in for a kiss, but Yamato has already misjudged the situation, thinking they are on the move again. They kind of step across each other and somehow their ankles get tangled. They grab one another for support, but it’s too late. Their centre of gravity has already flipped and the parking lot is rushing up to meet them.

They hit the ground hard, Yamato landing on his back, with Taichi on top of him.

It takes him a moment to get his breath back and when he does, he realises that the pain he should have felt from the back of his head ricocheting off the tarmac isn’t there. It’s not there because Taichi managed to get his hand in between Yamato and the impact, his palm cradling Yamato’s skull.

“Ow,” Taichi says.

Yamato stares up at him, amazed, because how does Taichi always know when to rescue him? “You saved my head.”

“You’re welcome,” Taichi says.

“Did you break a finger?”

“Nah. Probably not.”

Yamato lifts his head up just enough for Taichi to pull his hand free.

Taichi flexes his fingers, but makes no move to get up. He just seems really interested in watching his fingers move. “I feel like it’s been way too long since we’ve been on a floor together,” he tells Yamato, absently.

Yamato tries to move and finds he’s pretty much pinned. “Damn, you’re heavier than you used to be.”

Taichi smiles. “That’s all muscle, baby.”

Yamato would scoff at that, but he’s seen Taichi without a shirt on, and anyway he can feel that it’s true, everywhere that Taichi is pressed against him — which is literally everywhere. It’s no great surprise, given Taichi spends every spare minute he has running around fields.

Trying to think of something to counter this, Yamato does the only thing that comes to mind: he cranes his neck and gives Taichi the kiss he was aiming for before they fell.

He does it to make a point, but when their lips touch it feels so good that they don’t stop for a really long time.

They never do make it to fucking that night. On the way home, they both fall dead asleep on the loop line instead, heads nodding onto one another’s shoulders in a weed-induced coma.

The train guard shakes them awake and they stumble through the bright lights and horrible sounds of the city to Yamato’s apartment, where they can sleep off the dregs of their high.

When they wake up next, it’s already dawn. And everything is fresh and new and beautiful.


End file.
